


Domestic Abjection

by Walks_With_Whitman



Category: game of thrones
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Mind Rape, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 18:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8296591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walks_With_Whitman/pseuds/Walks_With_Whitman
Summary: Sansa thinks she has won once she learns to cope with Ramsay hurting her.  But then Ramsay moves the goal posts.  Mind Games, Domestic Sexual Abuse and Mental Terror.





	

After the first week, Sansa thought she had learned how to survive him. 

As soon as Ramsay would arrive in her chambers, she allowed her mind to float into blankness. She could never entirely shut off her awareness of the pain as he abused her body, but she was able to achieve a certain state of detachment that at least kept her from the humiliation of crying or begging him not to hurt her. 

She knew the old magic stories, knew that there were people who understood how to float themselves away from thier body and travel to entirely different places. Sansa didn't think she had achieved quite the same thing, but the knowledge of it served to guide her efforts. 

In her most private moments, she even felt proud of this small triumph, of finding a way to exclude Ramsay from her reactions. He raped her, beat her, whipped her, but she was learning to make herself a into a rock. 

Sansa also clung to her every day habits, knowing how easily she could lose herself over to sleeping all day. It would have been permitted. No one here cared if she was idle or active, but she forced herself to do needlework, to read, to care for herself. She sat brushing out her hair before bed when the door opened. 

He was earlier than usual tonight, she thought with dread.

"Here wife," he said, plucking the brush from her hands. "I'll do it for you."

Sansa's eyes widened. Catching a glimpse of her own startled face in the mirror, she did her best to look natural. But this was new. His smile at her through the mirror was filled with a smug cruelty.

"Lovely stuff really," he said, running his fingers through her hair. Then he set the brush down and combed through it with his fingers.  
Sansa braced, waiting for a harsh tug. Instead, he began to massage her scalp. 

She drew in her breath, not quite able to stop herself from wincing with relief, and her eyes filled as she tilted her head down to hide her face. Her mother had done this for her before bed when she was a little girl, and for a moment she lost herself in the memory.  
It felt wonderful.

"I think I may have been a selfish lover thus far into our marriage, wife," his voice cut through the memory.

Sansa gulped, hoping desperately that the sound had not been audible to him.

She had thought she had gained some mastery over her reactions to him. Had deceived herself that it was a victory, a way of defeating him. It seemed now though that he had taken it as a challenge. He had changed the game pieces.

"Come wife," he said, planting a kiss on her shoulder. "Further delights await you yet," he added, winking at her.

Her body shook with silent sobs, as he pulled her up from her seat, leading her to the bed. She tried to let her mind drift again, but the terror of anticipation shattered her focus. She desperately wished he would just cut or beat her. The kindness he was showing now was more frightening to her than any blade or whip.

Still, she tried to control her trembling, and allowed herself to be undressed, though this too, he did with much more care than usual. She climbed onto the bed without waiting to be told. She had already learned he hated to have to wait. And she knew better than to try to cover herself anymore.

Stripping his own clothes off, he gazed down at her naked body, where she lie trembling and goose fleshed. "I am a lucky man," he said, grinning at her. "I'm so grateful I didn't have to marry a big fat person like my father did," he added, joining her on the bed. "I want to make you as happy tonight as you have already made me," he explained, taking her face in his hand and kissing her.

When he moved his mouth down the column of her neck, Sansa's desolation overcame her. His lips and tongue were unusually soft on her body, and forced her to cry out at the terrible confusion between her mind and her physical being. His lips circled her nipple with a tenderness that was unnatural for him, creating a powerful drawing that left her moaning as he continued his journey down her body. 

"No, please," she wept, when he reached her center. It was so humiliating to have someone look at her most private parts. She wondered if this would be the moment when he would turn his ingenuity back to cruelty, perhaps to injure her there where she was most sensitive. 

Instead Ramsay lifted one of her legs in the air, looking down on her in bemusement. "You should always trust your husband," he advised, as if mocking her fears. Then he began trailing gentle kisses down her thigh, still welted from the night before, until he settled his head between her legs. 

What fresh new degradation was this? "Please don't," she cried, when the feel of his hot breath caused her to tremble. "Oh no, no," she moaned, as he began to lap at her sex and she realized her skin was rousing to him. She cried out again when she began to feel the tension mounting at her core, as he used his finger to part her folds, and she sensed his delight in her desperation to resist responding to him.

Her hips twitched unconsciously, and she was filled with revulsion. She was responding to his touch like the lowest slut; her treasonous body entirely forsaking any semblance of obedience to her will.

Sansa sought again to let her mind drift as she had done in the past. But her senses seemed determined to overwhelm her efforts to reach the safety of blankness. So instead, she drew in her breath, and tried to focus her will against his.

_Don't let him bring you off! You are Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of the last legitimate Warden of the North, and he is a bastard usurper and rapist. Don't give him this!_

Nonetheless, she was already feeling the bursts of sensation outwards from her sex, first one, then a few seconds later, another, until they grew closer and closer together; and then with one upward stroke of his finger, the tension that had mounted there exploded, and she screamed as the force of her first climax ripped through her body. 

Once it had subsided, she rolled to her side, gasping for breath. 

"Oh you were magnificent, wife," he said, grasping her hips and repositioning her. "Your pussy is drenched," he added with a smirk. "Here, taste and see," he added, forcing his fingers through her trembling lips. 

Hot tears ran down Sansa's face at this violation, but she complied, shame and hatred rising in her in equal measure as she struggled not to gag. 

Then he put his cock in her and started fucking. 

It wasn't especially painful anymore, not after the second or third time, but it was still revolting to her. And now, she had not only lost her trick of sublimating, but she even helped prepare the way for him to take her more easily. 

_I will never bear him a live child, never. I will find a way to get some moon tea, or I'll throw myself down one of the tower stairs. Even if I have to shove a stick up myself and die too, I swear by all the gods that I will never bear him an heir._

He was fucking her harder now, but at least she could just lie there. However, to her extreme chagrin, he tilted her hips up as he moved inside her, then reached down and massaged her clit as he continued to thrust, bringing her to a second unwanted climax that, once done, swamped her mind with fresh loathing for her weak, wanton flesh.

_You caused this. Your pride, your conceit in thinking that you were somehow defying him. He knew, and now this is your punishment. Never forget that; Theon was right. He knows everything._

Then finally, he came too. Breathing heavily, he rolled off, pulling her body into a spoon against his. "I've been a good husband to you tonight, Sansa," he mocked, whispering in her ear.

She stayed still, trying to hold her breath, not sure of how she ought to respond.

"When someone is good to you, you should thank them," he added, his tone growing more menacing as he grabbed her buttocks, letting his fingernails dig in so painfully that she yelped. 

"Thank you, husband," she said, biting her own tongue mercilessly, as if to punish herself.

He propped himself up over her, bringing his face into her peripheral vision. "You're quite welcome, wife," he replied, before leaving the bed to get dressed. "Now anytime you start to find our bedchamber activities stale, remember tonight."

Then the door closed, and he was gone. And Sansa rolled into a ball, with fresh knowledge of the bottomlessness of her despair.

**Author's Note:**

> When I saw episode 6-10, the intimate way Ramsay drew out Sansa's name during the kennel scene stayed with me. That intimacy led me to imagining this story, of him using unpredictability, and mostly pleasure to further disturb her mind, similar to the Reek-in-the-bath-tub scene in an earlier season, and I felt like I needed to write it to get it out of my own head. If I've done so correctly, I hope readers will also find it disturbing. Though there is no explicit horror, I was trying for something like a Gothic style. Thanks in advance for reading, kudos and comments.


End file.
